Show of Force by Charles D. Taylor Page A

Don, skirmishing with German elements as they made their way to the next front. They did not go hungry, for the peasants brought what little they had to the sailors, whose commander was already a myth.
    He lost more men at Kalach when they successfully destroyed a German fuel depot, the primary one the Panzer divisions depended on in the struggle for Stalingrad. Then, they captured a freight train and ran it along the canal to the great city. They arrived during the hardest month, October, the month in which General Paulus knew he must capture the city or face another cruel winter. The defenses had already pulled within the city limits and reinforcements from the Volga's eastern bank found themselves instantly in the front lines. The heroes were greeted for five minutes and then immediately sent to General Gorishnyi's 62nd Army, a unit already famous in its own right. Perhaps Chuikov had realized that the two heroic units should be charged with defending that part of the city -that protected the supply paths over the Volga behind them. At any rate, the remainder of those sailors who had left their ships to defend Odessa, Sebastapol, and now Stalingrad would never again see the Black Sea. They died defending Mamai Hill, and a Central Railroad Station that was already unrecognizable when they got there.
    There was a sharp knocking at his door. “Yes.” His aide entered, saluting as he stepped inside. “A report from Admiral Kupinsky, sir.”
    Gorenko nodded, not answering, as was his habit. “Two aircraft were sent to harass the Americans. They fired missiles from long range making one hit on a cruiser. Little damage reported. One of the Rigas was brought down by a low-level missile we were unaware of. The remaining aircraft successfully evaded the others.”
    “Is there any sign of Nimitz yet, or any of her screening or supply ships'?”
    “Nothing, Admiral.”
    He pondered for a moment, then looked up to the aide. “Message to Admiral Kupinsky—continue harrassment. Sacrifice if necessary to determine any other new weapon systems.”
    “At once, Admiral.” He wheeled and left, shutting the door quietly behind him and leaving Gorenko to his thoughts again.
    Gorenko rose from behind his desk and moved over to the windows, looking into the courtyard below. The snow had stopped, and there were already many footprints through the light dusting. Soon, flakes would again drift down, erasing those prints and making room for new wanderers, though there were few in this section of the Kremlin. A brief flash of midday sun glanced off one of the domes on the Cathedral of the Archangel. He turned and looked directly at the photo.
    The smells came back to him again, the gut-wrenching odor of death that hung over the city no matter where you were, and the calming blend of black bread and cabbage and makhorka tobacco in the basement command post. They had lost Mamai Hill once again and the General had been forced to move his headquarters. A fuel-storage depot had been bombed and burning oil was running into the basements. It was quiet outside because the Germans did not usually attack during the day. Gorenko was eating a hasty meal with Kupinsky, the young sergeant who had just been made lieutenant to replace the last officer in his unit who had been killed that morning.
    Gorenko decided to stay close to this man, for his troops still had a full supply of ammunition, especially grenades, which slowed any attack. And Kupinsky and his men were brave and experienced. They had been there since early September, always near Mamai Hill. Young Georgi Kupinsky had liked the Navy man, and they found that the defenders of Sebastopol and the defenders of Mamai Hill fought well together.
    Their newly designated basement headquarters were by the Stalingrad Tractor Plant. They would soon try to take back the Hill.
    “Tell me, Commander,” inquired the young man, as he lit one of the foul-smelling cigarettes, “now that they have allowed us to